


a name for vainglory

by Elisye



Series: mayflower | cosmos [5]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: ---that is actually not what happens in the fic tho rip, Gen, dial the void for help with your procrastination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 06:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12292848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye
Summary: The Grounded Occultist receives a visitor.





	a name for vainglory

**Author's Note:**

> the unnamed OC belongs to my friendos [Sylph](http://sylphwriter.tumblr.com/) and [Toast](http://t-chan.tumblr.com/)!!

  
sometimes, you see, devils take upon the worst of souls.

one would think - ah, does it matter, what the devils commit to in this line of work? not really. even to them, it matters so very little. (in the end, all that matters are burning words and figments of sunlight, stashed away to wherever the stars might know best.) but even so, even so - not every soul is benign and beautiful. not every soul is pure and glorious. like those vain seekers. a thousand of one, a thousand among many, a thousand among a thousand and one. seven-times stained, and even so, that is infinity despite being an increment away from it, really. those seekers make fine examples, don't they?

but devils know a stained soul in a heartbeat, and spit it back into the rib-cage with no courtesy and utter contempt. such a soul is not even theirs, after all. no one's, but---

ah. this is a bit off-topic now.

"Well _no shit_ , Vinegar Lady."

he rolls his eyes like you never were making sense to begin with. and that's not a fanciful statement in the least. you bark out a laugh, crude and sharp, precious in that mere way. the kettle seethes above the fire, not quite done but close enough maybe - you swipe it before the steam can start screeching, though no one would care if anyone started to scream bloody murder, really, and begin to pour tea and coffee for your uninvited guest.

"So?" you smile at him, wide and lazy. "Mind telling me about your exciting journey here, after I babbled about myself?"

"Babbled? More like started spouting a bunch of background noise." the man, poor half-man, starts to clean out one of his ears. you almost want to sniff at that - you just cleaned the carpet yesterday! "Anyway, take a wild guess. I'll let you know I never planned on getting to--- wherever this is supposed to be."

"Your brother, then."

the frustrated sigh is enough.

you giggle as you pour a bit of cream into the coffee, watching the mixture froth lukewarm brown under the candlelights. your eyes flicker back in a reflection - Correspondence-blessed and red. you pull the reins of self-restraint on your grin before it can become a grin as you serve the coffee, and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, making sure you dissolve it with several irritating clinks of a spoon. attention is great, even if it's stupidly minuscule. 

"Have a ticket back?"

"Think I do?"

"Well, you're supposed to be resourceful, right? That's what makes a good-enough father, sometimes." you snicker. he stares at you for a second. a bad joke if there was one. "But I guess even if you got a ticket without my good help, you'd be dabbling in some unfortunate connections. This London is a dangerous place, my dear friend."

"Did you just call me a 'dear friend'?" his voice pans out, dryly, before he shoots the balcony a curious look. the streetlights below are always so cheery, making the world outside seem warm and loving. even the ominous spires of the Bazaar seem beloved in this momentary fashion. you take a scorching sip of your tea for the thought, let your tongue taste ash. reminds you - the Revolutionaries are getting too close. you should make a note to stall their progress somewhere. it'll be fun!

you let the rest of your tea burn away your vocal chords so that you can dig out your notepad quicker. the ink-pot and its feathery-pen is in another room, you realise at the last minute - but as a person of the far-modern times, of course, you just pull out a ballpen from one of the hidden pockets under your voluminous layers of silk skirts and cotton petticoats. your guest raises an eyebrow at you until you finally manage to fish the pen out and scribble a few schedule tweaks on powdery paper.

"...Hmm, I suppose I can fit that here, and your little predicament over there." you offer a kind smile. it would be nice if you could be repaid for this, but you're no fairy. "After you're done with that coffee, lets go on a stroll through the city - just the two of us, hm, little love?"

eyebrows crease flat. "Ain't interested."

"Wow, cold."

something bubbly fills the back of your throat. you shake your head at him. "Well, I didn't mean like that now. Don't you want to go home?"

he frowns slightly. funny, you'd expect something like relief or resignation. wouldn't anyone want to go home? anyone with a home to go to, of course. ah, were you making presumptions then---

"That'd be nice," he says, slowly. warily. "But what the hell are _you_ doing here, anyway? And looking like that, to boot."

"My, that's rude. I am me. I can do as I please."

"Yeah, sure, but last I checked, right before I got here - I was with you and your family."

oh. that's the case, hmm.

"...It's all a matter of time." you tuck away your pen and notepad. a mirror on the wall seems to warp at the right angles, twisting the candlelight so that the red of your eyes seems almost false. but it isn't. in fact, the red is very permanent. even if people on the streets thought you were some kind of odd mix of human and not-human, perhaps even a monster, perhaps even a devil with a different shape and a peculiar air - you love being reminded, that from now on, you can never be completely human. it's the truth. "How you perceive the flow of it, at any rate."

you shrug. "So - your suspicions are right. I'm not her. There's a pretty wide gap, time-wise - and anything else to say, well, you have the brains for that, don't you? You should be a good father."

he looks at you like he wants to spit out the rest of his coffee into your face. or at least, he looks like he's mulling over it. good thing you always dress as if you're going to a funeral - even if it's a terrible fashion _faux-pas_ for this old society.

but, the black dresses and dark sheer make a prettily perfect match for your soul, and wonderfully disguises it as well. no devil has taken a real glimpse at it - they just know it's full of sunlight, a bursting point of song and wonder and Creation. what idiots, really. if they actually had it in their hands, they'd have so little time to realise they've taken upon one of the worst kinds of souls. it's too high, too low, and some part of the High Wilderness will probably be on their cases, maybe. it's a funny thing to consider sometimes. just maybe---

you pull a pale shawl off a hook on the wall, along with a light purse to stuff your keys into. "Now, how about that stroll? Let me catch up on my happier days, and I'll talk about what I turned into over the centuries. Haha."

hesitation is clear, but in the end, one ought to resign to it. your help is certain and generous - even if he doesn't want to perfectly cooperate with you, grudgingly resigned as he is. but if it's simply going to manifest as him taking another long fifteen minutes to finish his coffee, then, well, it'll be irritating. but not much of an issue.

hopefully.


End file.
